Oh my God.
I tear my eyes away, flushed and embarrassed by where my mind just went. Trying to shake away the shameless thoughts, I scoot over to the left side of the bed, giving Logan room to join me on the right side. I feel the dip in the mattress as he settles in. I can’t look at him again; I feel like I’ve been caught red-handed. The yellow and blue polka dots scattered around my pajama bottoms are extremely interesting all of a sudden. I trace each one along my thigh. God, I look like a five-year-old in PJ bottoms and a white cami next to his extremely adult, manly body clad only in boxer briefs.
“Everything okay?” Logan prods.
I make the mistake of looking up. He’s in my bed, half naked with his head propped against the headboard. His waist and legs are beneath my covers, but his upper body is in full view, completely on display. I sigh again. “No. I mean…” I shake my head. “Yes. Yes, everything is okay,” I fumble. Obviously I’ve forgotten how to speak
“Well, come here. I feel lonely over here.”
Nodding, I scoot back so I’m leaning against the headboard like he is and drag the comforter up to my waist. My hand smooths over the steel blue fabric. The color reminds me of Logan’s eyes. Funny, I never put that together before now. “So what shall we talk about to keep that pretty little head of yours clear of bad thoughts?”
Tilting my head along the cushioned headboard, I cross my arms and meet his gaze. “What makes you think I have bad thoughts in my head?”
“You must have bad thoughts before bed if you keep having the same bad dreams over and over again. Something keeps bothering you. If you actually let me in and talk to me about it, it may help.” There’s a slight hint of annoyance in his tone, which in turn annoys me.
“I have let you in, Logan. Other than Charlie, you’re probably the only person I have ever let in, besides Brooke.”
He shakes his head. “Don’t try to humor me. You don’t and you know it. You beat around the bush with me. You never tell me what’s bothering you. You won’t tell me how you feel. It’s like you skip over it, and I allow it. I accepted it because I thought you needed time, but now I’m not so sure if it’s time you need. I feel like you’ll always keep everything bottled up inside.”
“Wow. If that’s how you truly feel, then why are you even here?”
He bites down, jaw clenching. Through his teeth he mutters, “Because believe it or not I actually care about you.”
“No one asked you to,” I spit out, crossing my arms and looking away.
“Well, it’s a little too late for that, huh?”
“What is that even supposed to mean?” I ask. Logan lets out a mocking laugh. I scowl at him. “What’s so funny?”
“You. Me. Us. Everything!” He raises his hands for dramatic effect. “Look at us. We’re arguing like we’re a damn couple.”
“Yeah. Well, we’re not.”
“You’ve made that very clear,” he retorts bitterly. Then he scoots down into the covers and roughly turns to his side, giving me his back. So I guess we’re done with whatever this was—disagreement, argument, misunderstanding?
Yes, it was harsh. I know it was. But we’re not a damn couple and I don’t want him to think we are. I’m just…I don’t know. I’m frustrated now—frustrated at myself for being such a bitch and frustrated at him for wanting more, for making me want more too.
I stand and pad over to the light switch by the door, mulling over the shitty turn that the last few minutes took. The small lamp on the nightstand casts the only light in the room now.
Slipping back underneath the bedsheets, I rest on my side with my head on my arm. I stare at the back of Logan’s head while my mind wheels in circles trying to fill the silence. He’s in my room, and I know he’s mad, and I want to know what the hell is currently going on in his head, but I don’t dare ask because it isn’t fair. How can I ask him what’s going on in his head if I can’t even tell him what goes on in mine? Now I understand his frustration.
“Art was always my thing, even as a child, as far back as I can remember,” I start off quietly, my gaze lingering on Logan’s rumpled brown hair. His shoulders slowly lift and drop with his even breaths.
Silence. Then, “Yeah?” He speaks but doesn’t move.
“Yeah,” I reply and keep going while I have the guts to do it now. “It’s difficult for me to share or show my feelings. It was the same when I was a kid. I always drew, pencil to paper, and later discovered painting. Art was the only way I could express my emotions. I could create something beautiful without the risk of getting hurt.” I laugh at the thought. “I know it may sound stupid.”
Logan shifts, rolling over to the left side of his body so he’s facing me now. He stares at me, his head gently resting against the pillow. Not a trace of humor can be found on his face. “It doesn’t sound stupid at all,” he says.
“Maybe. Maybe not.” I shrug. “The more I relied on my drawings or paintings as a way to cope with all my bottled-up emotions, the worse I got. It triggered something else, and I withdrew even more into myself. It got so bad that the one thing I was truly passionate about slowly became an enemy.
“My heart gradually shut out all those who cared for me, making me numb. Painting became the only way I could effectively communicate. I poured all of my frustration into my paintings, so much so that when I got overwhelmed to the point of a breakdown, I exploded. One huge destruction. I couldn’t paint fast enough to handle everything, and I couldn’t handle painting or drawing without crying, without falling apart. It hurt too much. Once it came to that, I told myself I wouldn’t do it again. So I shoved most of my paintings and all my art supplies into a large cardboard box, metaphorically storing away all my emotions. I couldn’t handle it anymore, so I just stopped.”
“How long has it been since you last painted?”
I try to think back on it. “A little over nine months. My last painting was a month after Brooke died. I never finished it. It’s the only painting I’ve never finished.”
His eyes glisten as if a memory just sparked. “That one painting in your shed, when I walked in and asked for the measuring tape… That was the one, wasn’t it?” he asks.
I nod. “That was the first time since I stored all my paintings away that I looked at all of them. My psychiatrist thought I was ready to start again, but I didn’t feel ready yet. I don’t think I’ll ever be ready.”